Snakes and Lions
by Pockymon
Summary: So... what happens when Vicious meets Vincent on the street?


It seems that I am dead. The problem is, I've known this for some time now. I eat, and yet am never without hunger. I drink fine wine, and it leaves an empty tastelessness on my palete. I touch soft, pliant flesh and it no longer sets my heart afire.  
  
I've asked myself, time and time again, why... how did I let it get to this point? Was it simply bad luck? No, luck had nothing to do with it. Did I bring this on myself? Hell no, why would a man such as myself want this?  
  
It was all because of a woman.  
  
One woman made the most feared of all syndicates in this pathetic little solar system crumble and shatter to pieces. And why? How did she accomplish this feat?  
  
One man – a man for whom I was ready to take any life; a man for whom I was prepared to take a bullet; a man to whom I gave camaraderie and trust, sympathies I never knew I had the capacity to give – betrayed me. With that woman.  
  
And I am left alone, the only human being alive – or dead – worthy and strong enough to carry the weight of this dying piece of shit gang of rotting, putrid old men, desperately trying to hold on to any power they think they may have. Dragons who imagine themselves invincible and otherworldly...godly. But in reality, they are extinct. Didn't they know that dragons are of the past? Snakes, on the other hand, have survived millennia. They... We never die. Biting the heels of mankind, we rule an underworld humans can never experience...  
  
"Hey, you. Closing time. Pay up and get out."  
  
I hear the whimpering of one now...  
  
"Did ja hear me? I said – "  
  
I need but only look at the man and his words falter. What can I say? I have distinctness unmatched by most other men... I get up and leave the cash on the beer-spattered counter. A quick scan of the place reveals how empty it truly is. I can't say I was paying much attention tonight. No loss, though. I quickly tired of this place and its filthy dishwater it calls whiskey. I really should be going...  
  
Sometimes I believe that those morons in climate control cause the rain to fall all too often. To my left is the path to the prison I call home. Don't they understand how utterly... Never mind. But, it's true.  
  
It's always raining.  
  
It was raining that night. It rained the night before that. It rained the first night I saw them, confirming my suspicions... And it has indeed rained ever since. Even on that beautiful night when we met again. He gazed upon me with such malice and determination. He smiled, but it was the way a fox smiles, right before he changes into something else. Those eyes of his, gentle, beastly eyes, they are – not at all like mine. They searched me for some answer only I could give him. Hm.  
  
No, Spike. I don't know where Julia is. Nor do I care anymore.  
  
But in casual conversation, I would admit that yes, I hope that bimbo is lying in a ditch somewhere, pallid skin damp with this heavy rain, golden hair matted against that angelic face, physically dead as I am spiritually.  
  
That man...  
  
How could he have let her blind him so easily? Slender fingers gliding from her narrow chin to his lapel... those eyes deep as the oceans humans long left behind, lined with those soft as silk lashes...  
  
Who is that...?  
  
It was artistry the likes no man could withstand. Or could he? Didn't I? If but for a while... Only a god of infinite power and cruelest intensions could have crafted such a devious little creature. And how dare he.  
  
This man...  
  
How dare he destroy what I – what we so carefully constructed? Our lives, our family, obliterated, in a single bat of her luscious eyelashes...  
  
He walks so deliberately. Strides that remind me of that other, that one to whom I gave my all. He almost glides, but for the mass of his body. Strength... I feel his visible eye boring into my chest. That look I recognize from so many men, so many opponents I have met and slaughtered. That gaze that measures you up in a split second, and tells him you will fall easily.  
  
What is this man planning? More precisely, what is this man?  
  
His raven hair is soaked in this artificial downpour, drooping messily about his tanned skin. He hasn't shaved in days – over a week maybe. His hands are drawn up in loose fists. I anticipate engaging him – in a fight, of course. Not many men I have ever encountered struck me as this one has. As he comes closer, I feel my hand automatically hover above the handle of my katana. His trench coat flows wildly in the storm, becoming dark wings at his back, that single eye igniting in a surge of passion.  
  
What is this man?  
  
My body knows what to do, and I know that sometimes I have no control over it. The blade meets with his forearm – I see it – but is blocked somehow, and in the same instant I feel a car sideswipe me, directly into my ribs. No, that was this man's fist. I make a sound, one that I haven't made in many years since I learned how to properly wield a sword. I cut across again, determined to draw blood. This man is fast, but I know I can be faster. He has no weapons on him, or else he would have shown them after seeing mine. I go straight for his stomach, but he's quick to pickup my fighting style. I catch sight of that one eye, but as he turns swiftly to deliver a backhanded punch, I see the other.  
  
God, he's insane.  
  
I recover from the punch and ready the katana, heavy on the offense now that I know I can't afford to let him hit me again. He comes forward one step and I dive into the lion's den.  
  
Yes, that is what this man is. The most voracious lion, king of all warm- blooded flesh-eaters. That may be, but I am the ever watchful and cunning snake, my friend.  
  
He throws a right; I make an upward cut at his throat; he stumbles back. There is a slither of crimson on his hairy chin. I go for him again, but he knocks the blade away like it's a butter knife, never mind it has the blood of hundreds on its edge. This does not deter me. I can survive a gun duel. I can win with fists. I ready for another blow, but he gets me. My eyes could not even register that swift movement and for the life of me, I do not know why. I feel the impact with the pavement, as well as a foot in my stomach to send me down harder. I hear – feel – blood spatter against my lips.  
  
The hard asphalt feels good against my back, drenched and still warm from the heat of the day, just like something else I used to revel in... No time to day dream, snake. The lion is upon you. The katana is just at my finger tips, but the slippery wetness of a boot comes down on my fingers, crushing them under the lion's weight. Peering up at him through thin strands of wet silvery hair, I see his noble head outlined in a halo of artificial light from the streetlamp. His ominously regal form lingers there, looking down upon his captured prey.  
  
"That was nice... Care to step off my hand so that we may go at it again?"  
  
Feeling the chilly fingers of death – which look an awful lot like her's – wrap around my neck, I believe I get a little delirious. But then again, I have never been one to run from a challenge. For a dead man such as myself, only looking into the lion's mouth can excite what normal people call 'emotion' and 'feelings'. In this moment, I know that I am yet still alive.  
  
To my astonishment, he relents.  
  
And do we ever go at it again. He remains unaffected by most of what I deal out. I have the sneaking suspicion that he is not giving this hand-to- katana fight all he's got. In fact, this entire episode seems eerie, surreal. Every time I leave a mark, I am repaid in full with interest by his powerful fists and boots. After a while, once again I am flat on my back – on my side rather – and I wonder to myself, is he truly bleeding red blood?  
  
Here we are yet again.  
  
"Here we are...yet again..."  
  
I know that this time, he won't let me go. He's had his fun. He's tested my limits. He's left me a bloody patch on the sidewalk. And I'm alive. I know it. I feel it.  
  
What is your name?  
  
"What...is your... name...?"  
  
His night-sky mane glows against the shops' neon signs.  
  
Who are you?  
  
"Who... are you?"  
  
I know that he is smiling down at me. Lions don't eat snakes, do they? 


End file.
